


Fever

by tifaching



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mark of Cain, Protective Dean Winchester, Sick Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-02 16:04:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17267165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tifaching/pseuds/tifaching
Summary: Sam's way under the weather but he's not letting Dean hunt on his own.





	Fever

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wincest_whore](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=wincest_whore).



> Written for wincest_whore for the SPN_J2 Xmas Fic Exchange.

“Aaachooo!” Sam startles himself with the sneeze and when two more spit drenched explosions follow it, his brother glances up from the gun he’s cleaning at the far end of the table.

“Damn,” Dean says, as Sam dabs frantically with his sleeve at the pages of the book spread open in front of him. “Those were some wet ones. Getting allergic to research? Sneak a cat in here?”

“You’re the one allergic to cats,” Sam mutters, fingers digging in to massage his pounding head. That ache, along with an extra layer of fatigue dragging at his muscles he’d chalked up to regular, ordinary Winchester stress. Now he’s pretty sure it’s the result of close contact with half a dozen five year olds they’d pulled out of a rugaru’s pantry last week.

“It was those rugrats rubbing their snotty noses all over you up in Lakeland, wasn’t it?” Dean gives an exaggerated shudder and leans back in his chair. “Glad you drew babysitting duty for that one.”

“Mmm,” Sam says noncommittally, looking across the table at his brother. “How are you feeling?”.

“Never better,” Dean says and except for the dark circles and stress lines around his eyes, it could even be the truth. “You look like crap, though. Go take a nap or something. Drink some herbal tea or whatever it is you do for colds. The book’ll still be here when you get back. Might even have dried out by then.”

“Funny.” Sam resists the urge to lower his head to the table and not move for the next month or so. Exhausted is something he learned to work through long ago, but those kids had been hacking up lungs in addition to having noses running like faucets and he really can’t afford to be that sick right now. He takes a few breaths in and out, closing his eyes at the whistling emanating from his rapidly clogging nostrils.

“Hey.” Dean’s beside him in a time lapse move that Sam’s not comfortable with at all, gripping him by the arm and hoisting him to his feet. “Come on, now. Up and at ‘em.”

“I’m fine,” Sam says as Dean guides him through the hallways, but he sways a couple of times in his brother’s grasp and Jesus, this came on fast. They pass Dean’s door first and Sam leans in toward it hopefully, and snuffles out a sigh as he’s pulled gently past.

“No, man, you’ve got to keep your cooties in your own room. Can’t have us both out of commission.”

Sam looks down, but Dean’s staring straight ahead. Questions crowd his mind, but don’t make it past his lips. Can you even get sick? And considering the way things had gotten out of control the last time he was in Dean’s bed: do you really think you’ll hurt me? Dean doesn’t look up, but his chin dips slightly as he shepherds Sam into his room and steps back as he sinks onto the bed. After waiting a good two minutes for Sam to make any other move, Dean drops to his knees and pulls Sam’s boots off, tossing them into the corner. Sam slumps wearily backwards onto the bed and scooches on his back toward the headboard, hauling his legs up behind him. When a few more moments pass and Sam makes it clear that’s as much effort as he’s willing to expend, Dean leans forward with a sigh and undoes the snap on Sam’s jeans, snorting softly as Sam lifts his hips and wriggles helpfully as Dean pulls them off. Sam’s about to suggest his brother keep going, when a sneeze explodes out of him and then another.

“Okay, Sam, get under the covers. I’ll be right back.”

Sam’s starting to shiver, even in the bunker’s climate controlled warmth, so he rolls beneath the blankets and pulls them up to his chin. He’s looking longingly at the unreachable closet door, behind which are two more thick wool bed coverings when Dean comes back.

“Here,” he says, holding out a glass of water and two capsules. “These are the least expired cold meds we’ve got in the kit.”

“How least expired?” Sam eyes the capsules warily.

“Extremely least expired. The most least expired.” Dean sighs and grabs his brother’s hand, dropping the decongestants into it. “Just take ‘em Sam, I’m not trying to kill you here.”

Sam’s gaze flicks up to meet Dean’s and then drops again. Dean pulls back like he’s been scalded. 

“Just, get some rest,” Dean says as he walks out the door.

*

When Sam wakes next, the room’s dim, lit only by the lamp in the corner. On the nightstand there’s a mug of tea-cold- and a glass of water-warm. Next to the glass is a box. Sam hold it up to the light of his phone to see it’s Nyquil gel caps with an expiration date two years in the future. He’s alternately warmed and terrified because while Dean when out to get him unexpired cold meds, Dean went out to get him unexpired cold meds. He toys with the idea of getting up and checking on his brother, but not much time has passed since he went to sleep and Dean’s been back long enough for the tea and the water to exchange temperatures so he swallows the capsules and falls back into sleep.

*

The days stretch on and Sam can’t breathe, hacking cough echoing through his room as the cold settles his chest, Dean brings him soup and water, tea and decongestants and tissues and pie. When Sam’s fever shaking legs won’t hold him, Dean helps him to the bathroom, washes him in the shower and makes sure his hair is dry before tucking him back between clean sheets. He tries to pull Dean down beside him and as time passes he can feel the tension building in Dean’s muscles as he moves away. He wants to tell Dean it’s okay, that he’ll figure it out, but he knows as well as Dean it’s a crapshoot so he keeps his reassurances deep inside and concentrates on getting better.

*

The fever breaks on a Sunday morning but Sam’s chest is still tight and he coughs roughly as he levers himself out of bed and pulls on a pair of sweatpants. Dean’s kept him hydrated and fed to the best of his ability but right now he’s thirsty and vaguely hungry and he shuffles out of the room to find something simple to eat. After a quick stop in the head, the kitchen’s the next stop. He’ll shower after, maybe be able to convince Dean he still needs help. Maybe be able to instigate a thing or two now that he’s feeling marginally better. 

As luck would have it Dean is there, just getting up from the table with a plate in his hands. Sam can see scrambled eggs in a pan on the stove and bacon crisped up in another. The scrambled eggs he thinks he can handle. 

“You’re up,” Dean says and Sam’s about to snark a Captain Obvious reply at him when the tone of Dean’s voice registers and he spots a duffle on one of the chairs.

“Going somewhere?”

“Yeah.” Dean doesn’t meet Sam’s gaze. “Got a call about a vamp nest needs cleaning out. Figured I’d go check it out.”

“You were just going to leave?”

“I’d have been there and back before you even knew it, Sam. They set up an hour’s drive from here, practically in our back yard, can you believe it?”

Sam’s pretty sure who Dean’s contact was and yeah, he can believe that there are monsters that close by. Crowley’s keeping track of Dean and he’s not above giving him some easy bloodshed when the Mark needs to be fed. And it does need to be fed, Sam can see it in the tightness of his brother’s mouth, the darkness in his eyes. 

“Make me a plate of eggs to go,” Sam says, turning to head back to his room. “And don’t you dare leave without me.”

“You can barely stand up,” Dean begins before Sam wheels on him, one hand braced on the wall.

“Eggs, Dean. Make sure there’s a machete in there for me. And wait.”

*

Miraculously, Dean’s still waiting when Sam finally emerges, dressed in layers and with boots laced tight. He shoulders the duffle wordlessly and picks up Sam’s plate of eggs as he heads for the garage. Sam moves steadily behind him, but falls gratefully into the Impala’s passenger seat as soon as the door is opened. Dean hands him the plate and shakes his head as he heads around to the driver’s side.

“This is a bad idea.”

Sam takes a bit of egg, savoring the cheddar cheese Dean always mixes in. “If it comes to it, I’ll wait in the car.”

“Yeah, sure you will.” Dean sighs as he pulls out into the bright morning sunshine. He cranks the heat and Sam sinks into his seat struggling to keep his eyes open long enough to finish his breakfast.

*

Sam gets a decent hour and a half of sleep in before Dean roughly shakes him awake outside a neat grey farmhouse backed by acres of hay. There’s no barn in sight, but there’s a padlocked shed in the side yard.  
“This is the vamp’s nest?” Sam looks at the neat flower garden bracketing the front porch doubtfully.

“That’s what I was told.” Dean’s tense, ready to go and Sam grabs his arm before he gets out of the car.

“How many?”

“Intel says half a dozen.”

“Half a dozen.” Sam shakes his head, but the way Dean’s powered up now he could take out twice that many without breaking a sweat. “But we’re going to be sure, right?”

Dean clenches his teeth and Sam holds his breath. “Yes, we’re going to be sure.”

Sam doesn’t wait in the car. He follows Dean across the yard to the shed, keeping an eye on the house while his brother breaks in. The shed is empty of life, but human bones are scattered across the dirt floor. Even through his still partially clogged nose, Sam can smell the carrion stink. 

“We sure?” If Dean were a guitar string he’d snap, he’s so tightly wound right now. 

“You got this under control, Dean?”

“Of course.” The uptwist of Dean’s lips is totally unconvincing, but Sam’s got no choice but to follow him to the house.

The door creaks slightly when Dean opens it, but nothing stirs inside the house. The shades are all pulled and the curtains closed but a lamp’s been left on atop the mantle and it casts enough light to see. There’s a couple stretched out on the couch, woman to the inside, long dark hair flowing over the arm of the man behind her. Dean hold a finger to his lips and motions Sam to stand by the door. Sam rolls his eyes and moves into the oversized kitchen. Behind him he can hear the thwack of Dean’s machete making contact. The woman gets one yell out before the thump-tumble of her head hitting the floor reaches the kitchen. There’s one vamp in there with Sam, rocketing out of a rocking chair near the stove.

Sam chances a glance back through the door but Dean’s not going to come to his aid, he’s too far gone, lost in the dance of blood and bone. It’s just about the time Dean lops the head off his fourth vampire and starts in on his fifth that Sam decides insisting on coming on this hunt might have been a bad idea. The lone vampire left to him had its life frozen as a teenager; small but quick and smart enough to keep Sam’s long reach with his machete at a good distance. 

“Hold still,” Sam mutters, as the kid dances back out of harm’s way.

“Catch me if you can, old man,” the vampire says with a grin. “I can hear you breathing, you know. That chest full of crap you got there’s gonna have you wheezing and sitting in my rocking chair in no time. Might even get you a lap blanket before I bite you.”

“You wish,” Sam starts to say before his lungs rebel and the harsh, barking cough he’s been desperately holding in bursts out, bending him over with its force. He’s able to wave his weapon to keep the kid at bay, but it’s still not dumb enough to come within reach. He straightens up as quick as he can to get the fang back in sight but as soon as he does the kid unloads a cut glass sugar bowl at his head and it cracks against his temple like a tire iron. Sam staggers backwards against the wall but manages to keep himself upright and now the kid makes his move. He hits Sam in the midsection, teeth gnawing into his side and Sam lets out a strangled scream as he brings the machete around and down on the back of the vamp’s neck. The body falls to the floor followed by the head after he yanks the teeth from his flesh. Sam sags against the wall, still keeping his feet under him and waits for the tread of heavy boots headed his way. It’s a matter of minutes before Dean comes through the door, blood drenched and deadly, the barest shred of humanity in his eyes as he starts toward his brother.

“Dean,” Sam says holding up a hand, struggling to stay upright. If he goes down now he doesn’t know what will happen. “Hey, it’s me. Come back Dean. C’mon, man, it’s okay.”

Dean slows and stares at Sam and then at the body at his feet. His eyes clear and he takes a deep breath, dropping his blade to his side. “You got one, huh?” His grin is shaky but that’s okay because Sam’s vision is doubling and then tripling so it’s not like he can really see it anyway as he crashes to the floor, Dean’s worried shout the last thing he hears.

*

Sam doesn’t actually keep a record of all the places he’s regained consciousness in his life, but he tends to remember the ones where he’s tied to a chair, chained to a wall, or flat on his back on a rickety wooden table outside a town filled with dead psychic kids. As he swims blearily back toward awareness this time, he only notes that he’s warm and cocooned in something soft. There are other things he should focus on, like the metallic taste clogging the back of his throat or the boulder pressing down on his belly, but the grey fog drifting through his head rolls him under and he fades back into the dark.

*

The next time his eyes open, he’s determined they’ll stay that way for a while. Movement is out of the question- pain fireworks inside his skull at the smallest turns of his head, but luckily he only has to look straight ahead to realize he’s in Dean’s room in the bunker. An experimental and very tentative ankle wiggle digs his heels into memory foam. Canting his eyes up and to the left reveals a clear tumbler full of chipped ice on the nightstand. A warm weight sinks the mattress at his side and Dean’s breath softly warms the side of his neck.

“Thirsty?” Dean whispers 

The best Sam can do is open his mouth and savor the melting ice Dean drops into it. Dean’s fingers run moisture along Sam’s lips and Sam sighs at the long denied touch.

“I’m sorry, Sammy,” Dean breathes into the dark. “I’m trying.”

I’m scared Sam hears through his pain and God, he knows because he is too, just like he’s also trying as hard as he can. Lying there in the dark with his brother at his side, he prays it will be enough.


End file.
